


Unexpected

by TW Lewis (gardendoor)



Series: Unwritten [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1, The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-09
Updated: 2004-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardendoor/pseuds/TW%20Lewis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two lost souls find something unexpected -- each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Brace yourself for a terrible shock -- they’re not mine. And another terrible shock -- here be grown men boinking. Much thanks to my lovely betas, who beat this into shape and (mostly) forgave me for violating their OTP sensibilities: Sheila, Wendy, Pam, ShayAlyce, Akilah and Caro Dee.

The debriefing had been ... interesting. Jack and his men had worked out their cover story for General West back on Abydos; as long as Daniel Jackson and the local population were presumed dead in a nuclear explosion, they would be left in peace. And Jack had some measure of peace himself, for the first time in a long time. Daniel and the Abydonians had shaken him up, pushed him to live again, and even though it was too late to save his marriage, it had at least come in time to save _him_.

Which was why he had requested this final task for Dr. Jackson, to thank him in a roundabout way. His medical forms had listed a foster brother as next-of-kin, and Jack hated the idea of Daniel’s family getting the news from some stuffed-shirt, especially when there was no body to mourn over, no details to make sense of. Better that they get the news from someone who had considered Daniel a friend, even if Jack hadn’t had time to get to know him well.

He wasn’t too surprised by the address -- it figured that a crackpot theorist who had lost his grants and his apartment would have a crackpot brother living in a ramshackle old warehouse. Tribal drum music blasted from inside; Jack tried yelling, but no one came to let him in. He felt above the doorframe and found a key. The music was so loud the stairs seemed to vibrate under his feet, and he followed the sound to a curly-haired young man head-banging and dancing as he stir-fried something mouthwatering in garlic-orange sauce over a hotplate. “Blair Sandburg?” he called. The man didn’t hear him. “Are you Blair Sandburg?” he yelled. The man just kept shaking that cute little ass. “HEY!!!”

The guy jumped and turned around, blue eyes startled and perplexed at Jack’s uniform. He scrambled to shut off the music. “Um, hi. Sorry. Can I help you?”

“I’m Colonel Jack O’Neill, U.S. Air Force. Are you Blair Sandburg?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

Jack grimaced. At least Doctor Jackson hadn’t been a soldier, so Jack could depart from the cold, set script a little. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Sandburg, but your brother, Doctor Daniel Jackson, was killed--”

“What?” Sandburg stared at him. “No, he ... he ... How?” The kid was shaking -- not just his hands, but his entire body -- and Jack stared awkwardly at his grief and shock. As a soldier, he’d delivered this news before, seeking the comfort of formality, but the loss of his own family was so raw that he found himself reaching out to steady Sandburg before he fell, gripping the kid’s shoulders, kneading them with his thumbs. “The Air Force asked for Dr. Jackson’s help with translating a code,” he said, falling back on the script the Air Force had invented. “The base was overrun, and Dr. Jackson didn’t make it. But the code he broke saved a lot of lives, mine included. You should be proud of him.”

Sandburg stared at his feet, still shaking. “When did it happen?”

“Ten days ago.”

Blair nodded, the tremors quieting now. “How badly was he hurt?” he asked softly.

Jack wasn’t sure what he was asking. “Well, he’s dead.”

“No, I mean, they always tell you the person didn’t feel a thing, that it was over in a minute. Have you ever counted how many seconds are in a minute? It takes forever, man. Was he scared? Was he alone?”

Jack hated lying to this kid, but then it occurred to him that he didn’t have to. He _had_ seen Daniel Jackson die; it just hadn’t been permanent. “It was a clean shot. He got in the way and they shot him ... He was more surprised than anything else. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

Sandburg looked up again, and Jack cringed. He’d seen that look in the mirror too many times this past year -- that numb emptiness. It had almost driven him to suicide. He couldn’t leave Daniel’s brother to that, but feeling and sharing weren’t his strong suits by a long shot. He turned to the hotplate, where the stir-fry was getting slightly burnt, and added some more veggies and chicken. “This smells really good. Look, I’ve got a long trip ahead of me. Mind if I invite myself to dinner?”

Blair blinked. “Um, yeah, I mean sure, you’re welcome to stay.” He folded the bed into a couch and moved around the warehouse on automatic pilot -- heaping dirty clothes in a single pile, moving papers aside, scrubbing a couple of bowls and two nice pairs of chopsticks.

“Needs some more sauce, kid,” Jack called from the hotplate, and Blair handed him a bottle of oil, marmalade, and a jar of paste that reeked of garlic and hot pepper. Jack wasn’t much of a chef, but he figured the sugar in the marmalade would help Blair’s shock, and the hot pepper would balance out the marmalade, so he slathered on plenty of those, adding a little oil to keep the wok from burning.

It was a little weird, doing such a sweet little domestic scene just one day after he’d come home to find he was no longer welcome in his own house. “I can’t spend the rest of my life forgiving you and telling you it wasn’t your fault,” she’d said. “I’m not that much of a saint.”

Finally Jack piled the stir-fry in the two bowls and carried them to the couch. The food was spicy and good and plentiful, but neither of them had much of an appetite. Jack was no good with this emotional crap; never had been. Was he supposed to give Blair room to breathe or give him a hug? Draw out stories about Daniel or divert Blair with empty chatter? Bracing himself for getting his head bitten off if he was wrong, he said, “Sooooo, do you have a nickname or something? Cause I’m not so much into the whole guy with a girl’s name thing.”

Blair looked up, startled, and said, “Man, you are straight out of a paper I did on liminal gender categories, you know that? Protect the paradigm at all costs.”

“Oh yeah, those parawhatsies are tricky bastards,” Jack said. After years of Air Force briefings, he was of the personal opinion that there was nothing so entertaining as baiting brains.

Blair relented. “Danny used to call me BJ,” he said quietly, hunching his shoulders a little.

“BJ? I can do BJ,” said Jack. His eyes lit on a hockey stick half-hidden under a mountain of other crap. “Hey, Beej, you play at all?”

“What?” Blair twisted around in his seat to see what Jack was looking at. “Danny does -- did. Sorry. I suck, though.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll have a lot of fun kicking your ass,” said Jack. “Come on, all this space and you never once wanted to play indoor hockey?”

He sat there a moment, and Jack wondered if he'd chosen wrong, but then Blair forced a smile and dug out the hockey stick and an old broom. “You’re on, man.”

They put the battered puck between them, well away from the rest of Blair’s stuff, and squared off. It had been a while since Jack had played, and his muscles were a little stiff at first. Blair, on the other hand, was a quick little bastard, but no good at faking, so they were pretty well matched, neck and neck for over an hour of tough play. But then Jack whacked the puck with a really sweet shot, yelling, “Score!” as it sailed through the makeshift goal ... and right through the window with a bright crash of glass. “Oh, for crying out loud,” Jack groaned, walking over to try and glimpse a black puck on black asphalt two stories down in the dark. “Sorry; I can pay for that if you need.”

Blair stood beside him and peered down through the broken window into the night. “Guess that’s it for the game.” His mouth quirked in a smile. “Worth it, though. Thanks, man. I needed this.”

“S’getting late,” Jack observed.

“Yeah, you want to stay over? I mean, you said you had a trip back, and you shouldn’t be on the road this late.”

“I’m flying, actually, but yeah, military planes aren’t exactly comfy places to take a nap,” said Jack. “How ‘bout I take a shower while you figure out the sleeping arrangements, okay?”

Blair blushed. “Actually, there’s a little problem with that.”

“Only one bed?” Jack guessed. “It’s all right, Beej, won’t be the first time.”

“No, I have a sleeping bag and the couch cushions, but I don’t have a shower. I usually just wash up in the sink.”

Jack looked around the vast, empty warehouse, which was clearly _not_ meant to be used as living quarters. “Are you kidding me? What do you do when you have dates over?”

“Usually I go to their place, but,” Blair added, waggling his eyebrows, “a little creative bathing can be a real turn on, if you know how to play it, man.”

Jack shook his head. “Okay, the sink it is.” He accepted the offered natural sponge and a bar of soap that smelled like nutmeg and citrus, and stripped off his clothes while Blair pulled the couch back out into a futon and turned the cushions into a second mattress.

They’d bruised each other a little during the friendly match; Jack could feel the sore spots, and knew he’d be black and blue tomorrow. There was something mildly erotic about bathing out in the open like this, alternately warmed by the water and chilled by the draft from the broken window, watching Blair studiously keep his back to him, his ears pricking at every sound Jack made. It made Jack even more hyperaware of every sound he made, of the rough, wet, scratchy feel of the sponge on his skin.

His cock started to take notice, stirring a little as he watched Blair, felt the younger man’s awareness of him. He hadn’t been with a man since before Desert Storm, hadn’t even been with Sara since Charlie died. He hadn’t felt he deserved pleasure, or comfort, and certainly felt he was the last person Sara could turn to for those things. It was only losing her that made him realize how boneheaded he’d been about the whole thing. No longer.

Blair had finished making the beds, and sat on the edge of the bed, ramrod straight, with his back to O’Neill. The polite thing to do would be to hurry up, keep his host from feeling awkward, but Jack couldn’t resist drawing this out a little, watching Blair surreptitiously adjust a growing hard-on, until finally Jack took pity on his host and toweled himself off, taking the t-shirt and boxers Blair had laid out on the closer edge of the bed for him. “Your turn,” said Jack, offering the sponge and trading places with Blair.

At which point he realized an irritating fact: he couldn’t watch Blair bathe, and he had nothing else to occupy his attention. “So, all that talk about gender boundaries, are you studying to be a shrink?” he asked.

“No,” said Blair, hissing a little at his own catalogue of bruises, “I’m studying anthropology, looking at a lot of the early explorers and trying to find modern equivalents to stuff they describe. There’s this guy Burton, and he mentions these tribal protectors who had hyperactive senses so they could warn the tribe of all sorts of coming dangers: sensing the barometric pressure changes of storms, smelling interlopers in their territory, tasting poisons or contagions in the water supply. And I started wondering, these traits are genetic, right? So what happens to people like that in modern society? I mean, how do they cope with city life? Are they still driven to protect people? What sort of jobs do they take? Wine tasters? Army scouts?”

“Like those Viet Cong trackers who could tell American soldiers by their spoor,” Jack realized.

“Wow, really? Have to look that up. Thanks, man. So I started looking at perfumeries, cooking schools, psych wards--”

“Psych wards?”

“Schizophrenics, Jack. How many people who hear voices are really crazy, and how many are just hearing conversations three rooms away without realizing it? Anyway, I found people who have one or two senses, but I can’t find one of Burton’s sentinels, someone who has all five senses heightened.”

“You should be checking hospitals for allergic reactions,” said Jack, just as they both realized that in the course of the conversation, Jack had twisted around to better talk to Blair and was now staring at his nude body. Sandburg was stocky and hairy, and his golden coloring was clearly not a tan, unless Blair had miraculously discovered a nude beach in Cascade. His expressive blue eyes and open face showed a slight rush of embarrassment, but he made no move to cover himself. Jack let his gaze slide over hairy, toned chest, runner’s thighs, a plump, rosy cock that twitched and started to fill as Jack watched.

“Something you want to tell me, Beej?” Jack asked, meeting Blair’s eyes again.

Blair took a step forward, checking Jack’s eyes for confirmation, and Jack pulled Blair over to straddle his lap, supporting his weight as he leaned in to kiss the younger man. Blair’s soft lips fed hungrily at Jack’s mouth, the scrape of his stubble bringing Jack’s cock to instant attention against the pressure of Blair’s own erection. Blair’s thighs squeezed Jack’s hips insistently, his balls rolling up and down Jack’s shaft through the thin material of the boxers with every little movement. Blair’s throat tasted so good, like the first real food he’d had in ages, and Jack bit down hard to keep from screaming, his fists gripping Blair’s round, firm asscheeks, rocking backwards to encourage Blair onto the bed.

As Blair fell on him, Jack rolled over, pinning the younger man to the bed, and leaned down for a taste--

“No,” Blair protested, “I want you inside me. Please,” he begged.

Jack smiled hungrily. “Trust me, Beej.”

“Jack, I mean it--”

Jack stilled and rested his weight on Blair, looking the younger man in the eyes. “I know. You want someone else driving so you can let go, make the hurting stop. Just trust me, I’ll take you there.”

This time there was no protest as Jack moved down to suck that wonderfully thick, rosy cock, hands and lips moving slow, then fast, then slow again, working in counterpoint, teasing Blair’s perineum, bringing him to the edge and backing off until the man was _shaking_ with it.

Only then did Jack pull away from the now purple, straining erection and urge Blair to turn over. “Condoms?” he asked hoarsely, as he scrambled out of his borrowed underwear.

Blair’s trembling hand reached under the futon mattress and pulled out a handful of packets and little sample-sized tubes of lube. Jack slid a condom on, squeezed on some additional lubrication and pushed into that perfect little bubble butt with no warning whatsoever. Blair screamed, but Jack had been there enough to know it wasn’t pain, or at least it wasn’t ‘stopping’ pain. He thrust again, making room for himself, and then started pounding Blair into the mattress, aiming for his prostate every couple of thrusts just to keep Blair off balance.

Blair was crying now, the sound muffled by a pillow, and Jack let him cry. If the younger man was lucky enough to be able to let it out like that, Jack wasn’t going to stop him. The tight passage started squeezing, tensing all around him, and Jack knew Blair was close. He started pulling out as far as he could and slamming back in, snapping his hips until Blair came and came and took Jack along for the ride, his body begging for every drop of come Jack could spare as if his orgasm was fueling Blair’s own spurts. Finally, he pulled out, stripped off the condom, and tugged Blair into the circle of his arms. Tears glistened in the light from the street lamps outside, but the kid wasn’t shaking anymore.

“You gonna be okay?” Jack asked.

“I haven’t seen my mom in almost a year,” said Blair, his voice a little foggy and vague. “I think she’s adventuring in Morocco somewhere, maybe with friends, maybe on her own, but I can’t call her up and make sure she’s still okay. You know, I got a letter from Danny yesterday? International mail, he sent it weeks ago. He was dead when I read it and I didn’t even know.”

“You want to talk to your mom?” Jack guessed. Made sense.

“I want to not know about Danny. If I don’t know, he’s just off on a dig somewhere, with no time to write.”

Jack didn’t know what to say to that. He just squeezed Blair closer and wondered what time it was on Abydos.

*****

The air was cold, but the sun warmed his back as Jack groggily regained consciousness. The solid body in his arms turned out to be Blair Sandburg, utterly dead to the world, with an adorable case of morning stubble threatening to take all the skin off Jack’s arm. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so content.

He carefully extricated himself from under and around Blair, took a quick wash in the sink, and boiled a saucepan of water for coffee. Sandburg might be a penniless grad student living in a hovel, but he stocked real coffee, none of that instant crap.

Blair’s nose twitched at the aroma, and he stirred to peer groggily at Jack. “Oh man, can I keep you?”

With an expressive wave at their surroundings, Jack said, “Not in the style to which I plan to become accustomed.”

“Hey, at least you could play all the hockey you wanted,” said Blair, gratefully accepting a mug and inhaling deeply.

“Look, Beej,” Jack started awkwardly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you off, man. All I was trying to say was that I’m grateful, you know? I really needed not to be alone last night.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Beej, relax, you didn’t scare me off.”

“Good,” Blair grinned, “Because I had serious plans to nail you to the mattress this morning.”

Jack’s pulse raced deliciously at that thought, but he had to remind himself of what had to be done. “Beej, there’s something else. Danny lost his apartment right before the project; his stuff’s in an Air Force storage locker. I can have it sent to you here or you can come pick it up, whatever you need.”

“I guess I’ll go there and look through it; no point in having it hauled here only to throw half of it out. Danny tends to clutter up a space.”

Jack looked at the heap of Blair’s stuff, which only appeared neat because it had a whole warehouse of near-infinite space to grow out into. If Danny was messy by this guy’s standards... “That’s saying something,” Jack finally said, and Blair smiled back ruefully. “Now, about that whole nailing me to the mattress deal...”

A couple of hours later, Jack squirmed on the Air Force tarmac as he waited for his flight home, unable to find a position that would keep the grin off his face or the ache from his ass. A quick flight would get him back to his soon-to-be-ex-wife and his soon-to-be-ex-house. But even the knowledge of what was waiting at the end of the trip back couldn’t take away the memory of Blair rimming him and kissing his way up Jack’s spine before sliding inside him and fucking him slowly, leisurely, kissing his scars, riding him, quietly laying claim to Jack.

Truth be told, Jack was already looking forward to having the excuse of clearing out Danny’s stuff to bring Blair down for a visit, but the thought brought him back to Sara and the question of where the heck he was going to move his own stuff. The retirement package from top-secret projects had turned out to be a little nicer than the standard one for retired Air Force colonels; he could probably get a nice little place for himself, somewhere with a nice creek for fishing, maybe.

 _Wonder if Sandburg fishes?_ he thought to himself. Impulsively, he dug out his cell phone and Blair’s number. “Hey, Beej, do you fish?”

Apparently not fazed by the odd greeting, Blair said, “Depends, do Cree fishing spears count?”

“Can’t you just use a pole like a normal person?” Jack teased.

“Thought you liked the way I used my pole, man,” Blair chuckled. “You’re waiting for the plane?”

“Ya think?”

“Want me to keep you company?”

Jack felt a warmth rush through him. “Yeah, I guess. Battery on this phone’s good for an hour. And if I know you geeks, you can keep up a line of chatter for an hour or six, right?”

Blair laughed. “At least, man.”

*****

Blair bounced nervously in his seat as the Greyhound pulled into the depot. He hadn’t seen Jack in two weeks, and yeah, they’d talked a few times, but it wasn’t clear if what had happened between them was a one-night stand or what. He was going to be staying in Jack’s house, in his neighborhood. Was Jack out? Was Blair supposed to play it cool at the bus station, sleep on the couch at home?

He caught sight of Jack as he stepped off the bus. “Beej!” Jack called, clapping him on the back and sneaking a quick hug. “You have a good trip?”

“It was okay. How are you?”

“I’m good. You hungry? I thought we’d stop off, grab some dinner at this great little burger joint in town--”

“Aw, Jack, that’s a heart attack on a plate, man! You’re killing me here.”

“Because stir-fry with marmalade and a quart of oil is _much_ healthier,” Jack challenged.

“You’re the one who dumped the oil in there,” Blair countered, and the banter was so easy that Blair didn’t notice where they were going until Jack ushered him into the little railcar diner.

The waitress only brought over one menu, though, setting it in front of Blair. “I’ll tell Billy to put on your usual,” she told Jack. “Who’s your friend?”

“Rae, this is BJ, he’s from out of town.”

“Nice to meet you, BJ. What’ll you have?”

Blair grinned back at her, ignoring the menu. “Dunno, what looks good today?”

“Aside from you, cutie? I’d go with the shepherd’s pie if I were you,” she said.

He handed back the menu with a flourish and commented to Jack after she walked away, “They know you pretty well here?”

“I just don’t cook much these days,” said Jack.

“Yeah, I can see why,” said Blair, watching and sniffing appreciatively as a sizzling platter was delivered to the next table. “Man, I’m starved.”

The shepherd’s pie was good, made with real mashed potatoes and a thick beef stew, and Blair was feeling nicely stuffed when Jack finished his bacon cheeseburger and drove them home. The house was a nice size, with boxes piled everywhere, and Blair automatically went to open one. “This is all Danny’s?” he asked, then frowned in confusion at the photo of a tow-headed kid.

“That’s my stuff,” said Jack, taking the photo out of his hands and putting it back in the box. “Sorry, I haven’t really felt like unpacking.”

“Your son?” Blair guessed. The kid looked a bit like Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack said tightly. “You want a beer, Beej?”

“Do you get to see him a lot?” Blair asked.

“He’s dead,” said Jack. “Five months now.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” _Dammit, Sandburg, why do you always stick your nose into these things?_ He accepted the beer, feeling his stomach squirm.

“It’s okay,” said Jack, seeing his discomfort. “How were you supposed to know?”

Blair looked around at the house, realizing that it wasn’t large so much as bare: furniture was set out and the rugs, but everything else was still boxed. It was pretty obvious Jack would get his back up about it if Blair actually voiced an offer to help unpack, but Blair hated the thought of Jack living in such an empty, cheerless place. But if Naomi had taught him anything, it was to distract people and do what needed doing while they were looking the other way. “My mom would have a fit over this place.”

“Yeah? You said she was off in Morocco or something. Foster mom or something?”

“No, she’s my real mom.” He saw the questions starting, and just cut them off with a quick, “Some states have a little problem with commune-dwelling single mothers whose first graders protest the pledge of allegiance on religious and ethical grounds. Like I was saying, she’s really into Feng Shui, all that positive energy flow stuff. She’d throw a fit at the way you’ve set all this up.”

“Says the man whose stuff is piled in one corner of an otherwise empty warehouse.”

“Yeah, she hasn’t seen that one yet. I’m waiting to see what happens when Hurricane Naomi hits that place.” Blair snickered. He reached for the edge of the couch, pleased when Jack automatically lifted the other end without objecting. “I remember one time we were living with this Amish family in Pennsylvania...”

He kept up a steady stream of chatter while they worked, hoping to distract Jack from the task of unpacking, and it worked. He never even stopped to ask Jack where stuff was supposed to go, just made educated guesses and changed directions if Jack protested too much to having a particular knickknack in the bedroom, but when they were done, the house had subtly transformed into a home.

Jack looked around at the bedroom, clearly thinking the same thing. “You do this for all your dates, Beej?”

“Just think of it as payback for tomorrow. Besides, I’ve moved too many times in my life. You’ve gotta make it a home, man, even if it’s just for a little while.” He reached for the last box, marked ‘fragile’, and was surprised to find, wrapped in towels and sweaters, a large telescope. “Oh cool, does this thing work?”

“You ever looked through one?” Jack asked, reaching out to help pull it from the box.

Blair shook his head. “Not since I was a kid.”

“I’ll show you sometime,” Jack promised. He’d always loved looking at the stars, but after gate travel, they had a whole new fascination. He couldn’t wait to share them with Blair.

They made love slowly this time, exploring each other’s secrets, rediscovering sweet places they’d already developed a preference for. Jack was captivated by Blair’s butt, kissing it, nipping it, spanking it; but Blair had a weakness for Jack’s solid arms, and, in the playful afterglow, he discovered that Jack had really big feet with long, graceful toes that were just fun to watch. When he told this to Jack, Jack started wiggling them in time to the theme from the Simpsons, which started Blair giggling, which started a whole ‘nother kettle of fish, and it was a long time before they finally got to sleep.

*****

The next day, they rented a moving van and drove to the storage locker. Most of the furniture Blair set aside for Goodwill. The clothes, on the other hand, went straight to the moving truck. Blair puzzled over the artifacts, dividing them into categories while Jack stood around awkwardly, looking for some way to be helpful. “Where’s this stuff going?” he asked.

“Some of it’s actually on loan from museums; I’m hoping he’ll have an inventory in his papers like a good little archaeologist. Some of it _should_ be in museums; I’m going to send those on to the National Museum in Cairo before the New York Museum of Art hears about it. Danny would roll over in his grave if those fucking vultures used his stuff for their PR.”

Jack shook his head at the vehemence in Blair’s voice. Man, these geeks could get territorial about their museums.

“Besides,” Blair continued, “Giving the artifacts back to the indigenous culture is good karma.” He pointed to a third, larger pile of mixed artifacts and knickknacks. “These are for me.” He grinned as he added an odd set of lumpy clay jars to the mix. “Oh man, that takes me back.”

“Arts and crafts project?” Jack asked.

“Science fair,” said Blair. “Danny and I translated hieroglyphs to brew Egyptian beer from scratch and then measure the nutritional value. We nearly got expelled, and Bill really let us have it when we got home, but man, it was worth it. I didn’t get picked on again for the rest of the school year; all the bullies wanted the recipe.”

“You got hit a lot?” Jack asked quietly, seeing how matter-of-fact Blair was about it.

Blair shrugged. “Never hard enough to prove to a social worker. Danny got it worse. He used to get the attention off of me, because he was bigger. He’s the one who got me to sneak textbooks for higher than my age so we could take the GEDs and get into college early, not keep playing foster parent roulette. I kept it up even after Mom got me back; I was sick of getting taken away and not having any say in my life--” He broke off as he came to Daniel’s papers. “This is odd,” he said.

“What?” asked Jack.

“Some of Danny’s stuff is missing. No, make that _most_ of Danny’s stuff is missing.”

A chill went down Jack’s spine. Shit. The Air Force had taken anything classified, and of course Jackson’s foster brother would be able to detect the shape of what was missing. What would they do with Blair ‘for his own protection’ if the civilian figured out their top-secret project?

“I mean,” said Blair, frowning at the notes, “His journals are gone, and all of his research notes on the pyramids. He had this theory about a sudden cultural shift in ancient Egypt--”

Jack thought fast. “It’s because of the code he cracked. They were basing the code on ancient hieroglyphs, and because so much crucial information was written in it, all the translation notes became classified to protect the lives of undercover operatives.”

“You can’t classify ancient Egyptian,” Blair argued, “It’s out there already. Not to mention it’s more than a little past the fifty-year mark.”

“The mission briefing said Daniel Jackson was one of only a tiny handful of archeologists who could make decent heads or tails of it. I saw him run rings around the so-called expert they’d brought in before him.”

“But his notes on the pyramids didn’t have anything to do with hieroglyphs; they were all about architecture and technological leaps! Jack, can you talk to them, get them to separate out what’s really classified from Danny’s other projects?”

“Why is it so important to you, Beej?” Jack asked gently.

“He was obsessed with Egypt and the Indus Valley’s techno-quirk periods as long as I’ve known him -- tied in Mayan algebra, a 2000-year-old Chinese seismograph -- this was his baby, just like Burton was mine. I can’t count the times we curled up in the corner of the public library studying together, trying to keep the librarians from seeing us as they closed up so we wouldn’t have to go home that night. Please, Jack, more than anything, that’s how I want to remember him.”

Jack hugged Blair, burying his face in Blair’s sweet-smelling curls so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “I’ll see what I can do,” he lied.

*****

The thing about life-changing events, Jack was discovering, was that realizing that there were things worth living for did not change the fact that the garbage needed to be taken out and the cable guy was five hours late and there really wasn’t much to do when you were retired except fish and watch cartoons and brood a lot. Daniel Jackson and Skaara had made Jack realize he wasn’t dead, didn’t want to be dead. But if it wasn’t for Blair with his weird foods and hyperactive theories and his insistence that real men could cuddle on the sofa with hot chocolate and ginger snaps, Jack didn’t think he could have fit the lessons he’d learned on Abydos into civilian life in the suburbs. But fitting them into life with a man who brought home a monkey one day to watch television felt just right.

Most weekends, Jack would fly out to Cascade; one advantage of being a retired Air Force colonel was free transportation anywhere around the globe. Jack wanted to stay close to Charlie’s grave, and Blair was still working on his dissertation, so moving in together wasn’t an option. Jack was grateful for that when Major Samuels brought him the news that sent him hurtling back to Abydos ... and into his former life.

“Jack! I thought you weren’t due until the weekend!” Blair crashed headlong into the older man’s arms, kissing him wildly. “Oh man, you are not going to believe this; I found--”

“Beej. Wait.” Jack gently lifted Blair’s arms from around his neck and stepped back a couple of paces. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. I think you’d better sit down.”

“Come on, man, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Jack squirmed, wishing there was an easy way to drop two bombshells at once. “Beej, Danny’s alive.”

Blair searched his face. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, you said you saw him die; you said you were right there--”

“Beej, it was classified. I wish I had been allowed to tell you the truth, but I couldn’t.”

He could see Blair’s thoughts whirling, those piercing blue eyes huge and furious. “Was he -- is he hurt? Is that the bad news? Is he a POW somewhere? What happened to him?”

“He’s fine. He’s safe. They’re still debriefing him; when they’re done, he’ll call or drop by to say hi.” The fury was about to explode into a tirade, and Jack hurried to derail it. “Look, the details are classified, but I’ll tell you what I can. I knew Danny was alive the whole time, but I lied about it in my report. I couldn’t tell you the truth in case I was being watched; they might have decided he knew too much. But the situation has changed, they know he’s alive, and he’s joining back up with the project he was working on. And so am I. That’s the bad news.”

Blair stared at him, just trying to make sense of it all. “How is that bad news? You’ve been bored out of your mind, Jack; retirement was driving you nuts. Unless the project is ... oh man, you’re not, like, assassins or something, are you?”

“What? No! No, it’s a great project, it’s incredible, but...” Jack ran his hand through his hair. “It’s a high-security, high-profile position.”

Blair just looked puzzled. Damn.

“I’ve been told if I want the position, I have to go back in the closet. Completely.”

Blair cocked his head to the side, cold awareness creeping into his expression. “You said yes.”

“I said yes.”

Blair shrugged. “Hey, no problem, man. It’s not like we made any promises or anything.”

“Beej. Honey. Sweetheart. Snookums.” Jack wheedled. _Come on, get mad or something. Don’t just shut me out like this._

“Jack, it’s okay. It sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m cool, really.”

“Beej, I’m not Naomi,” Jack protested, having heard enough about Blair’s itchy-footed mother over the past year to know what Blair was doing.

Blair looked away, then deliberately met Jack’s eyes so Jack could see just how deeply he was hurting. “Nothing I say is going to make you stay.”

Jack reached out, and Blair automatically wrapped his arms around Jack, burying his face in Jack’s shirt. “And nothing is going to change how much I care about you,” he promised. “But I can’t say no, Beej. Not to this. I wish I could explain--” He leaned down and captured Blair’s mouth, kissed him deep enough to bruise, tasting Tom’s of Maine toothpaste and the warm flavor of Blair, trying to create a strong enough memory to hold him however long the Stargate program might run. “I’m sorry.”

Blair ducked his head. “You’d better get going, Jack,” he said, his voice tight and strained. “It’s okay.”

Jack kissed Blair again and walked away, hating himself for it, but leaving all the same.

*****

After Jack was gone, Blair finally let himself cry, hugging himself and rocking on his heels as the sobs tore through him. _And this started out as such a good day..._ he thought, as the tears spattered the fax he clutched in one hand, marring the words, “Ellison, James J., complaining of migraines, sensory bursts...”

End.


End file.
